


Once Seen

by Nagaem_C



Series: The Sewing Box: Needles and Pins One-Shots [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugged Sherlock, Gen, Hallucinations, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, South Africa, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 02:46:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1371115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nagaem_C/pseuds/Nagaem_C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the stories Sherlock has of his three years away, moving from city to city under dozens of assumed names in order to rid the world of Moriarty's criminal influence, there remain a few tales he's hesitant to share with John.<br/>This one, perhaps, is the least likely ever to be told...only because he's not entirely sure that what he remembers actually happened at all.<br/>But, in a way, what Sherlock learned in South Africa changed everything...</p><p>
  <b>(Takes place about six months before Stitching Up the Tears; may stand alone)</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once Seen

**Author's Note:**

> This is another short episode set during Sherlock's long solo hunt post-Reichenbach; it fits into my timeline about fourteen months after Song of Home, and roughly six months prior to Stitching Up the Tears—which would make it four months before Sherlock returns to London. It can stand alone quite easily, however.  
> *Note: some possibly slightly disturbing imagery*

  
**Once Seen**  
_17 February 2014_

.

 

He should have known the market was a mistake.

He'd seen the woman twice before, in passing. During the few weeks of his initial reconnaissance work here, he'd seen enough of the community to pick out local residents, assess the threats and dismiss the unimportant. Here in North Doornfontein, a shabby neighbourhood to the east of Johannesburg's city centre, crime is by no means limited to the insidious threads of Moriarty's web. There are scofflaws and fugitives of every flavour to be found here, and most are blissfully unaware of the higher echelon of villains beneath whom they run their little schemes.

The old woman, yes: he had seen her three days ago, leaning in the iron-grated doorway of a tiny food establishment, idly blowing smoke through the bars. And two evenings before that, she'd been stumping up the avenue with a bulging bag of ragged laundry upon her shoulders as he'd passed in the opposite direction. He'd scanned her clothing and her body language, itemised her secrets and added her weathered face to the ranks of the irrelevant: the elder matriarch of a relatively minor drugs scheme, distributing only locally and not linked to the men he pursued. No threat.

_Stupid, stupid..._

Eddie is his name, here. His papers and a carefully planted data trail proclaim him to be Edward Knowles, born in California, and now stranded destitute in South Africa after three years in the employ of a certain multinational shipping firm: well known in certain circles as having shady dealings, and recently having undergone a spectacular financial collapse. Eddie's skin is deeply tanned, and his hair is buzzed close to his scalp on the sides and back; the slightly longer top portion is a muddy ginger colour. He walks with a crooked, stooping gait, minimising his height and affecting a suggestion of moderate scoliosis. _Project an attitude of weakness and insignificance. Be seen to flinch from minor confrontation. Unremarkable, down on your luck, amoral but hapless._ The persona he's constructed, although still an obvious outsider, has been pathetic enough to eventually gain him uneasy, silent acceptance among the downtrodden inhabitants of this struggling neighbourhood.

 _No. Not pathetic enough, not weak enough._ He glances behind him and moves faster.

As Eddie had cut through the crowded open-air market moments ago, the old woman had turned suddenly from where she'd stood hunched over a bin of shrivelling citrus fruits. She had stumbled and caught herself against him, grasping with gnarled, dark hands in a move every bit as contrived as his own shuffling limp. He'd moved an arm and leaned in to steady her slightly out of unthinking instinct, and as he had she'd hissed one venomous word up into his ear: _"Voertsêk!"_

The simultaneous pressing pinch of a hypodermic had come as a _complete_ surprise.

 

.

 

It's been almost ninety seconds, now. He's made it through to the other end of the small market's stalls, and nobody has stopped or restrained him. He stops himself from glancing back a second time: best to keep from drawing further attention. Obviously the old woman didn't expect him to fall immediately, and as of yet, none of the others in the square seem to have given him a second glance.

As he walks, Eddie does his best to perform a fast self-examination. _Elevated heart rate, though that's explainable by surprise and stress; paranoia—that's not necessarily a symptom either, at least not yet—what did she dose me with?_ He shuffles into the first turn that takes him out of sight of the market, and sees that this street is mostly deserted.

 _Glass,_ he thinks, crossing diagonally to approach an electrical supply warehouse: its low, mullioned windows happen to retain most of their panes. He leans in close and checks his reflection as best he can— _pupils dilating, flushed cheeks_ —then shifts his focus to the mirrored thoroughfare over his shoulder just in time to see a startling shadow cross behind his head.

He spins in place, but sees no pursuers; the only person nearby is a dreadlocked man at the corner roughly twenty metres distant, facing away from him, sitting slumped upon a pile of dark, unmoving snakes.

_No. Tyres—those are tyres!_

Eddie swallows, and his tongue feels thick and hot.

When he turns his head to face forward once more, the bricks of the warehouse beside him blur in a strange ripple, and another angular shadow flits over the pavement ahead of his dirty trainers. _Keep moving,_ he instructs himself harshly, spurring his feet forward. _This isn't real. It's got to be some kind of hallucinogen..._

 

.

 

He is only two blocks from the relative safety of his little rented room, but the effects of the unknown drug are fast beginning to make themselves apparent. He concentrates on keeping control, trusting his feet to lead him on autopilot back through the dingy quasi-industrial district, moving as quickly as he can within the constraint of Eddie's posture and mannerisms.

The green-painted concrete wall of the next squat building he passes appears to be sweating great globs of viscous liquid; _Not real,_ Eddie tells the wall silently.

There is dusty litter in the scrubby weeds surrounding the base of a telegraph pole at the corner; it has grown numerous tiny feelers and is shifting and crawling towards his toes— _Not,_ he repeats, stepping high to cross hastily over a wriggling kerb.

By the time he has turned south at the corner of Hans Street, with its quartet of distinctive overhanging trees, the warm summer sunlight has shifted and the sky has changed colour. He catches himself considering the specific gaseous chemical composition that must be causing such a radical shift in the atmosphere: _Sodium burns with that same virulent yellow hue; perhaps an oxidised vapour of—No! Not real!_

He hurries across the narrow stream— _wait_ —road; its insistent current tugs at his dirty ankles. On the opposite side, Sherlock slips between a pair of the boxy, dated vehicles left parked in an uneven line... _NO!_

An electric thrill of panic shoots from the base of his spine. _Eddie. I'm Eddie!_ It's all he can do not to spin around and look; Eddie fakes a stumble instead, heart pounding, and uses the motion to cover a glance backwards to search once more for the old woman's accomplices.

There are none; amazingly, he is alone still. One of the abandoned automobiles at the kerb, however, is regarding him hungrily, licking its rusty lips.

Blinking hard and gritting his teeth, he finally reaches the watch repair shop, with its bright orange plastered walls and dirty aluminium awnings. The curved metal is flexing, unfastening itself over his head, melting at the edges. He fumbles his hand at the red-painted door of corrugated steel beyond the far corner of the orange wall, tugging it open to enter the narrow alley separating the shop from the five-storey residential building alongside.

What there is of a courtyard here is hemmed close by the squat rear of the watch shop and the attached garage extending behind it; a two-storey warehouse overshadows the enclosure on the opposite side. It's nearly five o'clock, and the irregular swath of sky he can see between these surrounding structures is dominated by the lowering afternoon sun.

Sherlock has pulled the jerry-built door closed behind him, shutting out the street. He pauses immediately after the alley widens into the square yard, transfixed by the sensation of a rough vibration beneath his trainers. _Thunder?_ he speculates. Sudden afternoon storms are common in the South African summer, but there are no clouds to be seen above: the air has now become the hard pink-crimson colour of a lithium flame, rippling from the sun with a thick, oily sheen. _No, it's not thunder..._ Its ominous, rhythmic pulse is too regular to be atmospheric, too organic to be machinery, too slow to echo his racing heart; Sherlock tries not to imagine angry gods preparing to climb through the crust of the earth. He mostly succeeds.

Shivering, he rushes for the fire escape, but before he can mount its stairs flesh-coloured vines sprout from the ground all around him. He groans in distress as they writhe at his feet, sending lazy rivulets of milky white pus to pool at their bases and dribble across the parched dust on the concrete pavers...

 

.

 

Sherlock is pressed back into the wall of the dingy apartments, rough brick scraping through his thin T-shirt as he slides down to the ground at the foot of the fire stairs. Loud, thrumming pulses assail his ears, churn his gut, rattle his jawbone—becoming harsher and ever more insistent—until at last he tips sideways. Lying almost prone against the sun-warmed base of the wall, he brings arms up near his head in a feeble attempt to shield himself.

His eyes are squeezed shut to block out the pressing fear, the images he can neither explain nor control...but then, the sense of dread is abruptly replaced by the perceived presence of a crouching figure by his side. When he steels his nerve to peek through slitted lids, he sees weathered denim, the cuff of a faded check shirt layered with a brown jumper, and a steady, compact hand resting on the knee nearest his face.

"Y-you." He is having trouble moving his eyes. Instead he focuses intently on the pull of the scuffed jeans over the kneecap, and the slow tapping of the blunt fingers. The nails are perfectly groomed, exactly as they always had been; Sherlock's gaze carefully traces the gentle curve of each clean cuticle.

He is surprised when the apparition speaks; its tone is resigned, rather than questioning. "What _have_ you gotten yourself into."

The shock of it is enough to jolt his unwilling eyes upwards. Although the sky is now blood-red and darkly throbbing, the figure outlined before it is somehow clearly lit, as if by floodlights at multiple angles; and so Sherlock perceives the man in hyper-realistic, almost painful detail. His mind reels as he registers the fine, short hair, in its myriad blended colours of toffee and stone; the storm-blue eyes, with the soft creases beneath them; the wheat-brown stubble just beginning to dust the stern jaw, which clenches and works subtly as the man swallows; the lips, currently pressed together in a familiar expression of tolerant concern.

Sherlock makes one more feeble attempt to surface. "You're—not real," he whispers.

"Of course not," agrees the man pleasantly.

He grunts, turning away from the serious gaze. _Don't say his name. Don't think his name. He's not here, he's not..._

"Sherlock."

He looks once more, and the man is still there, solid and imposing and so very, very near. Sherlock imagines he can smell the wool of his sleeve and a hint of antiseptic soap from his hand—the scents of black tea and currant jam are carried with the man's breath as he leans in close.

"You're really out of sorts, aren't you?" His voice is so incredibly patient.

"I..." Sherlock trails off, confused.

"And you're pretty exposed out here, too, you know. Indoors would be a much better place to chat, don't you think?"

Sherlock can't formulate a response to this.

"Come on, then. Get up and move, before someone more real than me comes along."

_More real? You're all that's real. Who could be more real?_

"Move it. Sherlock. Now," the man says, with a bite of steel in his words. _"Move."_

He jerks upright, awkwardly bracing his weight into the wall with one tanned arm. The disgusting vine fingers are gone as he lurches to stand, grasping at the rusting handrail for support.

"Much better," encourages the man with a grim smile and a curt gesture. "Now climb. Go on."

 

.

 

Once he is up and moving on the rickety metal stairs, Sherlock can no longer see the apparition. Within only a few steps, he finds himself slowing, forgetful already in his sudden mental exhaustion. At the first landing he pauses, staring out at the road he'd left. His hands clutch the railing tightly as he looks out at what appears to be a rising ribbon of black flames; he makes an involuntary noise in his throat.

The man speaks then, suddenly so near that the warm breath he feels at his neck makes him gasp. "They haven't followed yet. Why do you suppose that is?"

Sherlock's answer is hesitant and breathy. "They—don't plan to take me."

"Or, they already know exactly where you're staying, and they're simply biding their time," the man points out reasonably, backing off, and Sherlock shudders at the incredible contradiction of his voice: pleasantly dangerous, like warm cotton batting wrapped over a blade.

He turns from the distressing view. The man is leaning back upon the rail now, his elbows propped close to his sides, deceptively relaxed. He cocks his blond head toward the upward stairs. "Well?"

This time Sherlock understands what he's meant to be doing, and obediently continues his climb, with only a slight hesitation. "Could you...keep talking?" he asks, timid. He fixes unsteady eyes on each metal riser as he places his feet: up, up.

There is a soft chuckle behind him in response. "Right, then. Let's stick with the important topics, shall we?" As the calm voice follows Sherlock up the fire escape, it hitches very slightly with every few steps. ( _Leg acting up a bit,_ Sherlock thinks.) "You've got your short list by this time, I assume."

"Of what?"

"The _drug,_ Sherlock. Don't be daft. What did she put in you?"

"Ah." He bites his lip. "Injectable hallucinogen, quick acting, multiple strong sensory effects; possible candidates include LSD, PCP, solution of mescaline..."

"Not PCP," the man corrects him. "No drowsiness, no effects of anaesthesia. My guess would be DMT."

"Dimethyltryptamine...yes, that's quite possible." Sherlock reaches the third floor at last and enters the dim hallway of the building. He remains silent as he hurries down to the fifth door on the left: a tiny bedsit, one multipurpose room with a miniscule bath. The man is nowhere to be seen as he fumbles the key from his pocket.

 

.

 

Inside, the air is stuffy: Sherlock makes a point of latching the windows whenever he is not there, and has even sealed the crack beneath the door with electrical tape and thin board. Concerned by the prospect of new and disturbing visions, he glances around a bit fearfully as he enters. Tensely held shoulders slump in relief to find nothing out of place in Eddie's cramped room, beyond the figure already seated on the edge of the bed: the utterly impossible presence of J—

"Oh, _do_ go on."

Sherlock slips a hand to the deadbolt at the small of his back and locks the door, blinking. "Excuse me?"

"Say it. You know you want to. I'm not _here,_ what could it possibly matter if you call me by my name?"

"That's just _it._ You're not here..." He stands straighter against the door, raising his chin defiantly. "John."

John lifts one corner of his mouth, reclining indolently upon the thin mattress with his hands interlocked beneath his head. "Well, that's finally out of the way then. Good; down to brass tacks, now."

It's frustrating to Sherlock that he finds himself surprised, _again;_ even with the initial shock and disorientation worn off, everything this apparition says and does puts him freshly out of his depth. _He's a hallucination, a mere manifestation of memories or, at most, an amalgamation pulled from my subconscious; shouldn't I be able to anticipate his behaviour?_ He tilts his head in a questioning gesture rather than admit his confusion out loud, and moves to sit on the single wobbly chair.

John smirks, obviously pleased at the apparent advantages of his incorporeal state—one of which appears to be some awareness of Sherlock's own thoughts, which is frankly unfair—and graciously elaborates. "Assuming it is DMT she injected, you're looking at a window of about fifteen or twenty minutes. I'd guess it's been about six, at this point; seven, maybe."

"Seven and a half, actually," confirms Sherlock, mystified.

"Right, there you go then. So that leaves you probably another seven and a half. Twelve, at most."

"To do what?"

"To be ready—you're still not sure whether someone's coming after you, remember; to figure out what prompted the attack, and thereby determine what that batty old woman wants; and of course, to use me."

Sherlock's jaw hangs loose. _"Pardon?"_

"Ask. Me. Anything," John grins, eyes closed, and yawns. "Close in here, isn't it? You could open a window."

He's stood and lifted the latch to swing a pane outwards before he even realises he's complying. "This is ridiculous," he complains, carding an agitated hand into his too-short hair. He stares down to the street (heaving in slow waves under a sparkling sky of pale puce) and wonders if his addled senses would even recognise the presence of a threat.

"Not at all. You always used to say you thought better when I was around, didn't you? Anyway, it's no more ridiculous than leaving your best mate to think you're dead." At some point during this sentence, John's voice has lost its easy humour and become brittle.

Sherlock spins to face the bed; the vision of his former flatmate has sat up again, flat-footed and stiff-backed, head tilted down to study clasped hands. The posture brings up memories: a cane, and a loaded gun too ready at hand.

 _It can't be as bad as all that. You've had your life, your home, your friends. I'm just projecting my selfish need to be missed into a copy of you, aren't I?_ His mouth is dry; he breaks his gaze away from John, crouching to retrieve a warm bottle of water from the small cardboard box in the corner. As he rises, he feels eyes on the sunburnt back of his neck.

"I'm to _use_ you, then," says Sherlock, his words muted in the mouth of the plastic bottle.

"Well, when you say it _that_ way, it sounds a bit dodgy, doesn't it?" responds John from the bed, and just that easily the moment of awkward pain is dismissed; they both chuckle.

 

.

 

Sherlock decides that there is no good reason for the only comfortable resting place in the room to be dominated by a non-physical being; John is still sitting up, so he takes the opportunity to settle on the small bed next to him. They don't touch, of course—impossible—but they share a companionable few seconds of silence. To Sherlock's right, the opened window pane appears to dissolve, its frame breaking into floating specks of metal slowly eaten by the acidic violet cloud overhanging Hans Street. He watches the process with detached interest while he drinks.

"What was it she said to you, Sherlock?" asks John, firmly reclaiming his drifting attention.

Sherlock flaps a hand vaguely. "I can't be bothered to learn _all_ the patois slang they bandy about here," he snaps.

John says nothing, but the look he levels at Sherlock is easy to parse: _You really didn't think that would be useful knowledge to have here. Idiot._

Huffing a petulant sigh, he casts his mind back to the word, and eventually places it. "Voertsêk...hmm...I've heard it once before. Someone was yelling it at a stray dog."

"So: get lost, bugger off, scram?"

"Something like that." He quickly runs down his knowledge of Dutch and finds a phrase with a closely related meaning; the sound is similar enough in the root language. "Yes."

"Right. Right, then." John's brow creases; he stands and steps over to look out the window himself. He clasps competent hands at the small of his back, tapping fingers in a thoughtful rhythm as he appears to scan the area for approaching danger.

Sherlock watches him silently, wondering with a sort of manic amusement what the imaginary man is seeing. _For he is imaginary,_ he repeats silently, fixing the fact foremost in his mind. _Uncanny and inexplicable, but. Not. Real._

John snorts, not turning from his questionable view. "Get _over_ it, you git. You're running out of time here...but it’s pretty clear that nobody is coming, or we would have had some sign by now. As you've obviously just worked out, it's likely that the drug matron was simply spooked. You're a stranger in her territory, and she wants to scare you away. Good job there, by the way, making sure you appear weak enough to _be_ run off."

"I worked that out?" His eyes widen as John turns to fix him with a stare. "I mean. Yes. Of course I worked it out."

"Of course," John responds, indulgently. "Brilliant, you are. So what are you going to do about it?"

"Well, I still need another week of preparation before I can execute my plan," he muses. "Things are lining up, though, and my anonymous tip will go to the Johannesburg Metropolitan Police right on schedule. When I make my move I'll be able to eradicate the entire smuggling ring; the police will be in position to sweep up any stragglers without ever knowing I've been there."

"Sounds good. But have you got the time to find a new safe haven before it all goes into motion? Or, do you have time to figure out how to disarm this situation another way?"

Sherlock draws his feet up onto the bed, pressing fingertips together at his lips. "She _has_ thrown a wrench into the works. But..." Under John's alert, expectant gaze, he spins his mind rapidly through a series of possibilities, searching for a course of action—and then finding one that fits like a missing gear, interlocking its teeth perfectly into his existing plan. "Yes...yes! That could do it!"

"Ah, fantastic," says John, relaxing a subtle tension that Sherlock hadn't recognised was there; he breaks into a wide grin that warms his eyes like sunlight. He doesn't ask what the plan is, as it's obvious to them both that he doesn't need to; returning to settle at the foot of the narrow bed, he props himself in a satisfied sprawl on one jumper-clad elbow.

Sherlock looks across at him then, really _looks,_ at the echo of the real and remembered beneath his idealised vision; and he feels a familiar, painful tug that he shuts away with the speed and ruthless efficiency of long habit.

The man's head snaps up at once; he narrows his blue eyes. "Wait."

"What?"

"What were you thinking? Just then."

Sherlock edges toward the wall, suddenly defensive. "Nothing. It's nothing."

"Not-real here, remember? I've got a special talent, don't I," says John, tapping a finger to the side of his own forehead with a tight, determined smile. "Tell me what it was."

"It's—homesickness, that's all," he answers, his eyes shifting away. "Unnecessary sentiment."

"Stop hiding. God—can't you say it?"

"Say—" he splutters, hopping off the mattress and pacing the bedsit in tight circles; "You're not real, and I don't have to say anything!"

"I'm not real, no. But there's a difference between sparing someone else uncomfortable knowledge, and refusing to admit it to yourself."

 _"Stop_ it. This is utterly infantile."

"You don't think it would help?" John's face screws up in bitter frustration as he sits forward and spits harsh words across the small room. "You don't think that if you'd be honest with yourself you'd save the energy it takes denying it? Because it's taking a _lot,_ lately, isn't it? More and more, in the last few months, all to keep one room locked; and you stay out of your Mind Palace for weeks at a time now, don't you?"

"That's because it's safer," he insists. "I cannot risk being insensate for long stretches; I need to remain alert and on guard. That's all it is!"

"You've had a lot of practice finding safe rooms in the last two and a half years, Sherlock! Stop lying. You're avoiding it because it won't stay quiet." John's eyes are flinty and his jaw is tense; he's gritting his teeth. Flickering stripes of indigo and teal light from the window play across his forehead.

The empty bottle clatters to the floor. "No, I'm avoiding it because it's unimportant! I don't need it. It's trivial!"

"For something trivial it's certainly pulling a hell of a lot of your focus. You don't think, just for example, you might have been less _distracted_ while you were in the air over _fucking Manila?_ Admit it!"

"Damn you!" Sherlock presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, hard. "It's _better_ not to, _safer_ —I can't—"

"You can and you _should._ Only here, only to yourself. It's fine, it's all fine," John pleads, his voice rough and insistent.

"You don't understand!"

"What is it then? Tell me what you're so damned desperate not to know!"

When he opens his eyes John is standing mere inches away, face turned up to him, practically bouncing on his toes with furious energy; every line of his compact body is tense and quivering.

"You— _he_ —doesn't want—" Sherlock feels his heart twist and shudder, a frantic bird crushed painfully between massive fists. Finally he forces words out on a strangled groan, staggering a step backwards. "I _care_ for you, John!"

His shout echoes off the bare grey walls, and fades into silence; the tiny room fills with the uneven cadence of Sherlock's laboured panting as he hangs his head to stare with watery eyes at dirty, peeling lino.

After a pregnant pause, John's voice cuts through the static rising in his ears. "Sit down."

"Wh...what?"

"You're hyperventilating. Sit _down."_

Eyes squeezed shut, he lets his knees release; he drops to a low crouch in the centre of the floor as if his strings have been cut all at once, and is aware of nothing more for long moments.

 

.

 

"Purse your lips and blow out," John is instructing him, when he can hear again. His friend's voice has taken on the rhythm of command once more, quiet and firm at his ear. "Come on, Sherlock. That's it. In long, and out. Once more."

A high, thin whine escapes his throat as he struggles to comply with the doctor's orders. Agonising seconds tick by, punctuated by soft encouraging words that hurt, in their kindness, as much as the frightening fluttering of his heart.

Eventually Sherlock speaks, voice hoarse. "I'm." He swallows and exhales once more, shivering in the warm, still air of the bedsit. "...I'm okay."

"I'll be the judge of that, all right? Keep breathing."

When he lifts his head, John's stormy eyes fill his field of vision; the man is kneeling before him, leaning in as close as he possibly can. Were he tangible, their foreheads would be pressed together. Sherlock bites down on his lips and wishes, with the traitorous heart of one wholly lost, that he knew what that might feel like.

"When's the last you ate?" asks John, holding his gaze as he sits slowly back on his heels. A muscle twitches in his left cheek.

Sherlock tosses his head weakly. "Thursday? I think."

"Promise me you'll eat something today."

He slowly straightens up to stand on shaky legs, gingerly taking the three short paces to drop boneless onto the bed. "Certainly, John, I'll just pop back to the market, shall I? With luck, Ouma Dwelmbaas won't be waiting to stop me getting a banana, this time." _Grandmother Druglord,_ he thinks, perversely satisfied at proving to John that he recalls these words in Afrikaans.

"I'm not joking, here. Promise me."

He peers up at the man, now standing over him with arms crossed, and sketches a slight nod. "When I'm sure it's safe, I'll go over to Mister Van der Merwe's and get a biryani. Happy?"

John regards him silently and eventually nods, but his expression does not change; dissatisfaction and worry cloud his countenance. He glances out the window, and Sherlock's gaze follows, registering a strobing, spotted miasma of deep sea green edging slowly but surely into cobalt.

"Looks like it's about that time," sighs John. He sinks to sit on the floor facing the bed, knees tucked under his chin.

Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise and pushes himself up on an elbow. "You seem disappointed. I'm sure you'd rather we'd had a pleasanter visit? Pity you're incorporeal, you might have found us some decent tea in this blasted place."

This remark produces the desired effect: the doctor's face creases into a smile. "Sorry. You'll just have to continue to survive without," he chuckles. "As a destitute Californian, shouldn't you be craving green juice drinks or some such rot, anyway?"

The expression Sherlock returns is exaggerated and comically sour, chosen for its remembered ability to amuse his flatmate—and it does. He _relishes_ the sound of John's laugh: the startled way it bursts out of him full-throated and rich, and then trails off into high, wheezing giggles that return over and over when he tries to stifle them. This is the real one—the relaxed, vital laugh Sherlock has only ever witnessed when it's been the two of them alone, safe at 221B; to hear it now, even from the mouth of a mere vision, feels like becoming suddenly aware of a beacon light over a stormy sea.

They smile at each other for long seconds as their shared laughter gradually fades. John unclasps his hands from around his shins, and wipes away a remnant of his mirth with one finger at his eye; at the same time a strange flicker passes through him, a half-second burst of purple static interrupting a strong signal.

He doesn't seem fazed; when he speaks again, there is no sign he's noticed the break. "You'll be finished before much longer, won't you?" he asks, tilting his head. "And then you can come home."

"It could be months yet, John." Sherlock watches another flicker cross John's serene face. "I wish you wouldn't," he says softly, glancing down and away.

"Wouldn't what?"

"Leave."

The answer is murmured gently. "I wished the same thing of you, Sherlock. And just look where that got me, eh?"

He dips his head to the mattress, pressing his eyes closed, but cannot keep his gaze averted for long. When he looks back, he regrets having looked away at all—the static bursts are increasing in frequency. Disturbing as it is, he locks his attention onto John, intent upon drinking in the sight of his friend for as long as possible.

John's cheek now rests upon one knee, and the look he directs at Sherlock is balanced on a knife-edge between sadness and peaceful compassion. The violet flashes get brighter, faster and more diffuse, and it is as though they are leaching the vitality and colour from the man's image as they pulse and fade.

Sherlock thinks he sees John's lips moving, but no sound passes the silent static.

"No, wait," he whispers.

 

.

 

The sliver of sky visible through the open window is cloudless, clear blue; the most normal, featureless, unthreatening blue he's ever seen. And he utterly _despises_ it.

Sherlock curls in a foetal position around the empty feeling in his chest, making himself small on the bed and clutching his sheet in one fist.

He wants nothing more, at this moment, than to cease the incessant painful workings of his thoughts; he does not expect to enjoy the inevitable, painstaking process of gathering Eddie's pieces and building them back up into strong walls around himself. It's entirely possible that the memory of the lurid and strange visions may remain with him for some time—certainly, he will not look at this neighbourhood the same way again—but above all, he dreads the internal reckoning that must necessarily come. For the apparition was right, he realises; he's been doing himself a disservice, in refusing to acknowledge the intensity of his distraction.

Once seen, the truth will no longer be content to hide quietly away.

This Sherlock knows, with the certain clarity of a doomed man.

 

\-- _fin_ \--

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sincere thanks to my good friends NDW and HarmonyLover, who analyzed the heck out of this with me, and also to mrv3000, who continues to be very helpful! I love all of you quite a lot. :D


End file.
